


Breathe

by flowerfan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Love, M/M, Missing Scene, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 21:30:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20453861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerfan/pseuds/flowerfan
Summary: On the bus back to London after Armageddon didn't happen, Aziraphale comes to a realization.  Even if they don't have much time left, he thinks he can do this.





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Дыши](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24924709) by [NewBeginnings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewBeginnings/pseuds/NewBeginnings)

The bus lurches forward. Aziraphale clenches his stomach, keeping his balance on the vinyl seat. His skin feels tight, restraining, and he swallows hard against an unexpected rush of nausea.

Next to him Crowley sits just as still. His long limbed form gives the impression of being relaxed, but Aziraphale can see in the jut of his shoulders and the angle of his knees that the day’s events have taken a toll on him as well.

The memory of that creature rising from the ground (Satan – it was Satan – it can’t really be possible, but it was) sends a shudder through his core. Aziraphale remembers Crowley crashing to his knees, a look of terror on the demon’s face like nothing Aziraphale had ever seen before. A look that only got more panicked as Aziraphale had turned to him, sword in his hand. 

He hadn’t meant to wield it. He never had. And certainly, would never raise it to Crawley, not on purpose. It was just there, in his hand. Much as Aziraphale had been there, doing what he was told, if not unthinkingly, then without sufficient though to merit any other term. For six thousand years.

The bus turns a corner and Aziraphale sways despite his effort to remain upright, his side pressing into Crowley’s. Crowley doesn’t react, bone-hard shoulder unmoving. Aziraphale keeps his hands pressed on his thighs, palms down, willing them to stay still, stay calm. 

The noise of the engine as it revs up and whines back down grates in Aziraphale’s ears. He wonders when the rest of the passengers will figure out that they are taking an unusual detour. Crowley must have considered this already, he realizes, and given them a nudge, because most of them get off at the next stop, shuffling their way forward and down the steps without a word.

They have such power, the both of them, angel and demon. But today it seemed as fragile as a feather compared to what they had faced. Aziraphale doesn’t care to consider the odds of today’s events. It was so tremendously unlikely that they were going to survive. Ineffable, indeed. Not capable of being known. Terrifying.

There’s a pressure in his head and Aziraphale almost wishes he could discorporate again, float away from visions of nightmares created from the worst dreams of humanity and uncaring beings with sway over the universe. How dare Gabriel, how dare he take the fate of the world so lightly. What had happened to him? Was there ever goodness in him? What does goodness even mean, if to Gabriel its logical result was to discard all of human life?

The bus rocks over a bump and Aziraphale jerks against the seat.

“Breathe, angel,” Crowley says. The words seem to reach him through a fog, and as Aziraphale turns his head to look at Crowley, his neck feels stiff and strange.

Crowley is looking at him a little sideways, the gold glow of his eyes peeking from behind his glasses. 

“What?”

Crowley tilts his head. “Breathe. It’s over. We’re okay.”

It’s not, Aziraphale thinks, it’s not. The world might still be here, but he and Crowley are certainly existing on borrowed time. He sees the image again of Crowley crashing to his knees, eyes wide and scared.

“I am breathing.”

“Slower. Deeper.”

Aziraphale frowns but does as Crowley says, paying attention to the air coming in and out of his lungs. Some of the tightness subsides, and he flexes his hands, wiggling his fingers and then clasping them together.

“Better?” Crowley asks.

“Yes.” Aziraphale regards him, bright hair askew and skin scuffed with dirt. “Yes, thank you.”

This body isn’t truly his, but it feels like it is. It’s miraculously the same as the one he inhabited before (thank you, young Adam – Adam Young – his brain foolishly trills). It apparently is not pleased at all with the day’s events. It has a mind of its own, and that mind is teetering on the edge of panic still.

Crowley has turned to gaze out the window. Aziraphale thinks that he is giving him “space” – a concept he imagines might matter more if they were humans, beings who had less control over their environments. If he were someone that hadn’t spent thousands of years alone, building up more than enough space for countless human lifetimes.

He opens his mouth to speak, to pull Crowley back to him, but he can’t find the words. Maybe Crowley needs the space. He’s the one that chose to sleep away decades, leaving Aziraphale alone. Because Aziraphale wasn’t ready, wasn’t clear about wanting to keep him close. Was too scared for them both to face the truth.

He feels himself tensing again, and focuses on his breath. Deeper, Crowley said. Breathe deeper.

Crowley fought so hard today. Afterwards, when they were leaving the airfield, Aziraphale looked at the remains of the Bentley. He doesn’t understand how Crowley drove it as it went up in flames all around him. Crowley thought Aziraphale was gone, and that Armageddon was upon him, and yet he still drove on. He hadn’t fled to Alpha Centauri. He’d kept on trying to save the world.

Aziraphale no longer knows who he is without Crowley. He no longer wants to. They don’t have “sides” anymore, it’s true. Not the way they used to. There’s no reason, really, that he can’t go to Crowley’s tonight. Seek refuge just for a few hours, be in his company just a little longer, until they have to face whatever is coming next. 

Aziraphale thinks maybe he can give them this, the illusion of safety, the nearness of each other, just for a little while. He craves Crowley’s presence, his voice, his smell. He has for longer than he cares to admit. He knows in the hidden crevices of his borrowed heart that Crowley feels the same.

Aziraphale’s not sure how to go about it, how to bring them together, but there no longer seems to be any reason to wait. They don’t have much time left.

Aziraphale twists in his seat, just enough to see Crowley more clearly. He’s still strung tight. Aziraphale wonders if Crowley feels the same ache in his bones that he does. If his skin is stretched to the limit. 

His hands twitch on his lap, an aborted attempt, and then he tries again.

“Crowley?”

“Umm?” Crowley turns to him, obedient. Willing, as always, to listen to whatever Aziraphale has to say.

Aziraphale reaches up and slowly pulls off Crowley’s sunglasses. He holds Crowley’s gaze as his yellow eyes blink. “Crowley, you can breathe too.”


End file.
